Sherlock was born blind.
He had never been able to see, not even shadows or shapes. He was always surrounded by darkness, everything was black for him. He remembered the day his parents had told him. He was four, a little child with an innocent, but already brilliant mind. Everything his big brother Mycroft had read to him, was clear, he was already able to solve the riddles and little challenges his brother gave him. He had never thought that he was different. That's the thing about blind children; they don't know they're disabled until someone tells them. So Sherlock had just thought he was normal. His brother had never told him, neither had his mother or his father until he reached the age of four. It was his birthday and an uncle, who they never saw because he was travelling around the world, sent a book for Sherlock. The little boy touched the leather and smiled, he didn't know what it was, but the fact that someone had given him something new, exiting was joy enough.
Nobody talked while little Sherlock opened the thing and touched the paper, tried to figure out what it was. Not until Mycroft took it out of his hands and stroked his hair. His mother sobbed. His father whispered something Sherlock was able to hear; he had always heard things his brother couldn't and it made him proud. And then they told him he was blind.
It was a big word for a child and he didn't know what 'blind' meant. So he searched for Mycroft and took his hand, the naïve question 'Myc, what does blind mean?' hung in the air as his mother began to cry. Sherlock wanted to ask her what was wrong, but his brother dragged him away. Twelve steps to Sherlock's bedroom coloured in gentle and bright colours – Mycroft had once told him with a shaken voice. Sherlock was confused and curious, but he wasn't able to say anything. Somehow his mind told him it was his fault, that Mummy cried because of him and that father was angry. But why, he asked himself with tears running over his cheeks, he hadn't done anything wrong!
"Sherlock… you know that you are surrounded by darkness, right? Everything's black for you, isn't it?" Mycroft asked him and hesitated for a few seconds before he tried to continue, but he couldn't. His voice was shaking and the hand he used to stroke Sherlock's curly hair was shaking too. "You know when Mummy yells because someone made it dark in the room? When she tries to find the light switch?"
Sherlock nodded. He always heard his mother. Someone made it dark around her and she was able to change that. With a light switch. He knew what it was, sometimes when he walked through the house and counted his steps because he wanted to steal cookies even when Mycroft was asleep, he touched the wall the whole time like his brother once had told him to and sometimes he was able to feel a thing. He could push it and it made a sound, a click.
"You think my light switch is turned off?" Sherlock asked with a worried expression before he smiled and stood up. "We'll have to find it!"
Mycroft sobbed and hugged Sherlock. The child could feel that his body was shaking and he could feel the tears as they fell on his skin. Had he said something wrong? Sherlock wanted to ask him what was wrong, but he didn't want to upset Mycroft more. He wasn't sad, Sherlock had always been able to feel if Mycroft was sad and then he always took his brother's hand and asked him if he wanted to go outside with Sherlock and he would be happy again. Was he angry? He had to be angry. Something Sherlock had said was wrong.
"Did I say something wrong?" he asked, he hated the sound of his own voice, so childish and he didn't have an accent like Mycroft or his parents, "Why are you crying?"
"Sherlock… I…" his brother searched for words, "people don't have light switches."
"Then why is everything dark?" Sherlock asked. He crossed his hands in front of his chest and waited. He wanted to know! Why couldn't someone help him?
"Mummy told you that you are blind, right?" Sherlock nodded. "And… that means you won't be able to see anything. It will stay dark. I-I… Mummy, Daddy and I… no, how do I describe it…" Mycroft let out a sigh and moved, Sherlock could hear the rustling of his clothes. Suddenly Mycroft hands were on his cheeks and he wiped the tears of his brother away. "I'm always reading you books or riddles, right? And you once tried to take the book? Do you remember?"
Sherlock nodded. The thing his uncle had given him was a book? He always thought that he just couldn't see them; he imagined that only grown-ups could read them. Maybe there were fairies and they didn't want him to read? Maybe he was too young and it would upset other children his age?
"You couldn't read it. You didn't even see it. Sherlock, that's what blind means. You can't see anything and you won't be able to. Because something's wrong with your eyes and this sense doesn't work." Mycroft paused and waited. Sherlock blinked and cocked his head. He couldn't see? Was that the reason for the darkness… he sobbed, suddenly understanding that he was abnormal, that he won't be able to see something. Mycroft lifted him up and Sherlock curled up on his lap. He felt the tears on his cheeks, but didn't realize he was crying. "But your other senses are better than then mine, or Mummy's, or Daddy's. And being blind isn't a problem, not for you. You-you can still smell, hear and taste, right? And I won't leave you, Sherlock, I never will and I will always help you, okay? Always! Please, say something or cry, just make a sound!"
Mycroft sounded desperate. He was crying again. Sherlock wanted to tell him it was okay, but it wasn't. He wouldn't be able to see anything, not his brother nor his parents or the sun or the rain. And Mycroft would leave him; he would go to a college and leave Sherlock alone. He tried to scream, but only a sob left his mouth. Mycroft lent back and Sherlock entwined his arms around the older boy, silently crying.
When Sherlock was seven, his dreams changed. He only dreamed about smells and the things he heard. Once he dreamed about his brother and a tale he had read to Sherlock, something about a boy who always watched the sky and fell in the water because of it. Sherlock hadn't laughed, but he listened because his brother was the only one who wanted his company, not like the teachers his parents had hired. This time, it was different. He was able to see something and it scared him. Only fog and something strange, it wasn't black, it was brighter. He woke up screaming and yelling, confused and scarred. What was wrong with him? Someone opened the door and seconds later, he found himself in strong arms. He smelled Mycroft and his brother whispered to him, tried to calm him down.
"What's wrong, Sherlock?"
He didn't want to tell his brother, but he always did because Mycroft actually listened every time. "My dream was strange." Mycroft didn't say anything, so Sherlock knew he could continue. "I… there was fog. And it was strange, brighter than the darkness, but in… another colour, but I don't know what it was."
"You saw something in your dream?" Mycroft asked him. He sounded confused and surprised, but somehow happy. "Can you describe the colour?"
Sherlock shook his head and snored. "I'm blind, Mycroft, I can't describe a colour!"
"I know, Sherlock, I know." Sherlock smiled and accepted the apology his brother wasn't willing to say. "Was it warm? Did you feel comfortable when you saw it?" Sherlock nodded confused. Mycroft stood up and took Sherlock's hand. "Let's go outside, Mummy and Daddy won't mind."
Sherlock followed his brother outside. It was cold and his bare feet were soon wet because of the grass, it had rained earlier. He heard a little click, maybe Mycroft had turned on a torch light or something else. He knew that it was dark outside; the night was not as black as his vision, but dark enough to take away Mycroft's sight. Soon Mycroft stopped and released his brother's hand. Sherlock tried to find out where Mycroft was. He could hear his breath and that his brother had taken a few steps ahead.
"Maybe the colour you saw was green. I can't be sure, but I always wanted to describe to you what colours look like. The grass is green, it's not dark, but not totally bright. And it's warm. Some colours are cold, like blue or grey - both colours your eyes have. Trees have green leaves. Feel the grass, it may be wet, but it still feels soft and tickles you, right?" Sherlock got on his knees and let his fingers run through the grass. He remembered the times he just laid here while Mycroft told him about his day at school, that he was afraid of leaving and that he would take his brother with him, no matter what.
"You can't describe a colour to a blind person, Mycroft." Sherlock whispered. He remembered the colour the fog, he thought that it had to be fog or mist after the description of Mycroft, clearly, warm and comfortable, beautiful.
"I can," his brother disagreed, tousling Sherlock's hair. "Mummy has green eyes, but not as bright as the leaves of the tree in front of us." Mycroft lifted Sherlock's hands and gave him two things. "In your left hand is a leaf, in the right one a blade of grass. Can you feel the difference? The grass is even, but the leaf is rough and has vein-like canals on the surface. It's the same with the colours. Even if we say 'That's green' and 'That's blue,' everything is different. Everything has shading and musters, everything is different."
Sherlock rubbed his fingers over the leaf and smiled. "What do you look like?"
Mycroft sighed and sat down, Sherlock could feel the slight wind his movements made and sat next to him, his head resting on his brother's lap. "I knew that question would be asked someday." He chuckled. "I'm ginger. That means my hair has reddish shading. Not as strong as real red. Fire is red, some flowers like roses - you know the flowers with stings mother loves so much? Red is the colour of love, but also of danger. It is heat and love and they use it on signs to warn people. My eyes are like yours, blue like the sky or the cover of your favourite book and grey like steel - a cold, emotionless colour, but yours are brighter. They shine, your eyes, I'm sometimes jealous, but only sometimes."
"What else? I know you're tall because I can't touch your head when we both are standing next to each other. Are there any other colours you could describe to me?" Sherlock didn't try to hide his curiosity. He wanted to know more, it felt like he could see the things Mycroft described him, blurred objects in his head.
"I could describe what you look like, brother."
"Dull," Sherlock moaned and opened his eyes slowly. He wanted to know it and Mycroft was aware of that. Sherlock heard a chuckle and smiled again.
"You have almost black hair. Hair can't be as black as your vision, but people still call it black. It's curly and soft, not even like father's. You have high cheekbones and hard features, but it is perfect for you, it makes you look like an adult. Your eyes are blue and grey, bright and shining like the sun."
"The teacher told me they are fuzzy and fungous," Sherlock whispered. "He said that's because I'm blind. He said it's like the water when there's soap in it and that they don't have a clear colour."
"He said that?" Mycroft asked and Sherlock knew he was frowning. "Then he's a liar because I can see every colour clearly. Which one is it? I'm going to speak with him and tell him that he has to apologize to you."
Sherlock said nothing and cuddled his brother. He was tired and his head started to hurt because of all the information he had been told. He yawned and closed his eyes, slowly falling asleep. He knew Mycroft wasn't going to leave or stand up because Sherlock would awake immediately. He would make sure his brother wouldn't get a cold and Sherlock knew that.
From that day on when someone told him that something was red, he thought about his brother. Green was the colour of his mother's eyes, warm and caring and blue and grey were the colours of his and his brother's eyes. He didn't care about white, yellow or the other ones.
He kept on dreaming about fogs the following weeks. It had become a routine. Mycroft had started to sleep in Sherlock's bed and he always took him outside or to another room when Sherlock woke up. He always described everything to him, how Mummy looked and what blonde was - it was like yellow, only that it wasn't so bright, not like a lemon, but creamy like his favourite food. Sherlock knew that his brother was tired during the day, but he never complained and slept when Sherlock had lessons. It was a silent deal between them, Sherlock made sure his brother wasn't disturbed during his sleep and his brother would tell him how everything looked. Their parents weren't happy, but neither of the brothers listened to them. It didn't matter.
It was night. Sherlock fell asleep a few hours after his brother, he enjoyed listening to his calm breathing, and he started to dream about fog, again. It had a cold, bright colour, but after a time it started to change. Two colours, both cold. It was strange, but Sherlock didn't want to wake up because it didn't stay in this state. No, it changed again. The fog became clearer and shifted until it had another form, something he never had heard about. Hard with a round arc, two circles in each. The area around the circles was bright and it seemed colourless, he knew it was called white, the tiny circle in the middle was black and the cold colours were in the outer one. These things were looking at him. Eyes? He was confused. Two floating eyes in the middle of darkness and white fog.
His vision changed again. The eyes veered slowly away from him and… something different appeared. Sherlock suddenly felt grass beneath his feet and wind blew through his hair. He saw something in front of him, big things trying to reach the sky. Hold on - he saw? He looked around in panic and wanted to wake up, but he couldn't. He looked down and saw the grass, every colour and every single blade of grass. And he saw the trees, their brown bark and their leaves. Everything Mycroft had described to him. Someone laughed. He turned around, still confused and overwhelmed with the things he saw, and tried not to scream as he saw to boys. One was bigger than the other, with bright hair and the eyes which he'd seen earlier. The other one was small and had black, curly hair. It was him. The small boy was Sherlock and the bigger one was Mycroft. He laughed and rubbed the back of Sherlock with one of his hands. He held a book in his other, reading the tale of Sleeping Beauty.
It was a memory, he suddenly realized. And it wasn't his.
It was Mycroft's.
Sherlock woke up and sighed as he realized he couldn't see anything again. Mycroft, still sleeping next to him, mumbled something. Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to calm down. He had seen something, the sun and the sky, trees and grass, flowers and - the most important thing - he had seen his brother. He had never imagined what Mycroft looked like. Of course he had tried to imagine of the elder boy, but he had never had been able. Now he knew it, he really knew and he would always remember. Now he had to find out why he had seen something.
He tried to wake Mycroft up, but it took him a few minutes until he just started to fake a sob. Mycroft was almost immediately awake.
"What's wrong?" he asked and sat up.
"My dream, it was strange." He didn't hesitate a second because Mycroft would believe him, he always had. Not like Daddy who just laughed at him. "Remember the day you read me 'Sleeping Beauty' in the park? I saw it, I saw us lying in the grass and I saw that you cried. You tried to hide it from me and I didn't know it back then, but now I do. I saw it Mycroft, I saw your memory."
Mycroft yawned and entwined his arms around his brother. "You know I believe you. I just can't figure out how this is possible. You saw my memory… I have no explanation, brother, I don't have the slightest idea."
Sherlock slid under the covers and tried to hide his face.
"I'm a freak, aren't I?" he whispered and crawled away from the caring touch of his brother. "Don't try to say anything else!"
"I won't deny that." Mycroft said and Sherlock's heart began to fall apart. "But better a freak than dull like Daddy. You're different and that's good. I wouldn't want to live in a world without special people."
"You think I'm special?" Sherlock asked, his voice sounded naïve and childish but this time he didn't mind.
"Yes!" Mycroft stroked Sherlock's hair and chuckled. "And we're going to find out how you can use that, okay?"
They soon found out that Sherlock was able to see Mycroft's memories. Right now it only worked when Sherlock was asleep, but somehow they both knew that Sherlock would be able to do the same when he was awake, he just hadn't figured out how. Somehow, and they didn't know why but neither of them asked, Sherlock could see everything Mycroft dreamed. Everything. Every memory like they were his own. He wanted to find out more about it, but of course he couldn't read, so Mycroft read it to him. They didn't find anything out and both of them were too afraid to ask a doctor or their parents. So they kept this secret and practiced in the night. Mycroft had always been able to control his dreams. It was their way of having fun; Sherlock watched everything and asked his brother later about things he didn't know. Their parents didn't know about it.
Sherlock, now nine and already as smart as an adult - if not smarter, sat in his room and tried to draw something he had seen in Mycroft's dreams. A cat, if he remembered correctly. They once had one, but it died when he had been five. He remembered the soft fur and the sounds it had made when he had caressed it. But now he knew that the fur had been black and its eyes had been green. He was lost in his own thoughts, trying to remember what he had seen in the dream, as a new image appeared. He saw his parents, the appearance still scared him a bit, but he couldn't see Mycroft. His brother didn't sleep, he just came back from school, and he could hear yelling and screaming from downstairs. The image was shaking and moved the whole time. His parents started directly at him and every time someone screamed, he could hear it. This wasn't a dream, it was real. And he could see it.
The moment Mycroft came in, angry and silently crying tears of anger, Sherlock saw his room and as Mycroft turned his head to look at him, he saw himself. He freaked out.
He didn't remember how he landed on the bed, but the next time he woke up, he lay under the covers in the arms of his brother. Mycroft stroked his hair and sung to calm Sherlock down.
"What happened?" he asked his little brother. "You seemed to be afraid and surprised."
"I think it's time for an experiment," Sherlock said instead of telling his brother what had happened.
They went outside. Mycroft still didn't understand what was going on, but he didn't ask. Sherlock ran a few meters away from his brother and turned around.
"When you were downstairs with Mummy and Daddy, I saw everything like I was you. I could see Mummy's lips moving while I heard her screaming. And as you walked in, I saw myself. Do you know what that means?" Mycroft shook his head and said 'No'. Sherlock let out a frustrated sound. "My ability isn't limited to your dreams, Mycroft, I can see everything you see! If I can do that with other people…"
"You don't know if that will work with other people, Sherlock." Mycroft said, but he seemed to be happy. "But we can try to work on… our vision."
Sherlock began to grin. "I don't know how to turn it on, we have to figure that out."
"What did you do when you started to see what I see?"
Sherlock sat in the grass, tucked his legs up and closed his eyes. "I tried to remember how our cat looked."
Mycroft laughed frustrated. "I have no idea how that could be useful."
"I concentrated on your memories and your mind, every time I'm inside your head, I have a special feeling. It is like fire in my chest, but it doesn't hurt. A warm feeling, maybe I have to focus on that to invade your vision."
Sherlock took a deep breath. He wasn't good with emotions, maybe because he had never played with other children, only with Mycroft, but it had felt good. He doubted that if would feel the same if he was able to do that with other human beings, but he didn't want to guess, he needed proof. Mycroft didn't say a single word. Sherlock tried and tried, he focused on his chest, tried to summon the heat, but it didn't come. He groaned and fell in the grass, breathing like he had just participated in a marathon. Mycroft sat next to him and sighed.
"I'm sure you'll find out how to do it."
And he did.
It took him a year to figure it out. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't. Now and then he just had to think about Mycroft and suddenly he was in the class room and standing in front of the board, solving arithmetic. He never asked Mycroft if he felt that he wasn't alone in his mind anymore because he knew Mycroft did. His brother came home that day and gave him a paper with the arithmetic he had to solve and Sherlock did it. He learnt more and more and became smarter than his father ever was. His parents didn't know why, they just thought their elder son taught Sherlock everything. That was close to the truth.
Sherlock tried to invade his parents' vision, but it never worked. Maybe because he didn't like them, they never came to see him or to wish him a good night, only Mycroft did and he still slept in the same bed as Sherlock, or just because he didn't want to. It became easier with Mycroft. He didn't need to concentrate on that feeling, he just had to think about his brother and then it worked. He began to follow him everywhere, in the class room, library and even when they both were at home at the same table, eating. He wanted to see everything, even the smallest butterfly.
But Mycroft soon left when he was nineteen and Sherlock twelve. He moved away, but called his brother every time, chatted with him on the computer with the help of web-cams. And Sherlock still was able to see what his brother saw. Because, no matter how far away his brother was, he could easily invade his vision. Of course he got bored and he started to find a way to do the same with their servants. There was a young lady who was there to clean the rooms. Her name was Clara and she was nice, tried to make as much sound as possible every time he was in the same room. It was quiet entertaining. He knew the whole house by heart, every corner and room, but the adults didn't know that. He heard them whisper about him, that he was strange, even for a blind boy. That they had the feeling he was looking at them and knew everything.
He did, somehow. When Mycroft was at home, every vacation and sometimes at the weekends, they would watch the servants. Sherlock would notice everything because Mycroft told him where to look at. Clara's knees were a little bit red and she had a red mark on her neck, even if she tried to hide it with a scarf, so they both knew she had an affair with the cook's husband. They told her, of course, and laughed as she chased her husband in the garden, a knife in her hand. He had been naked, but it was still funny. Sherlock had smiled.
Sherlock knew that he had to find a way to see without using his brother. So he told Clara, who was still working at their house, what he was able to do and she was willing to help him. He knew that she thought he was crazy, but he knew far too much for a blind boy and she was afraid that he will tell someone about her new affair with the gardener. It was always the gardener. He had first tried to do it without touching, because he hoped his idea wasn't true and that he was able to use his ability without skin-to-skin contact with strangers, but it failed. He touched her shoulder and invaded her vision. First, she complained about headaches and that she felt like her eyes were burning, but he got better and one day, she didn't feel his presence in her mind anymore. He was proud and so was Mycroft.
Sherlock had the chance to live an almost normal life and he was willing to use it.
Sherlock was standing in the lab as two men walked in. He didn't need to turn his head to know that one had a limp, he could hear the cane and the steps were unsteady. A soldier, he thought, who had just come home from the war. He hoped Mike would give him his phone because then he would have an excuse for touching him. He wanted to see the man. But it was not Mike who lent him his phone, it was the stranger. Sherlock tried to walk without his stick, but the furniture of this lab was unfamiliar to him. His eyes, behind the black glasses, were closed, but he opened them as soon as he got the phone. Most people knew about his ability. The first person had been DI Lestrade. No one wanted to believe that an obviously blind man could solve crimes. How foolish. He had been angry and, without asking, he had touched the detective and told him about their corpse. And their reaction? A woman, Sally, called him 'Freak' since then and everyone else thought he wasn't blind. They only accepted him because Mycroft had enough influence to make sure Sherlock was allowed to solve the crimes.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked even if he already knew the answer. Mycroft sat in front of his screen and watched the situation. Maybe because he knew that Sherlock wanted to see the stranger or maybe just because he watched his brother the whole time. But as Sherlock invaded his vision, he saw John Watson, army doctor, for the first time. He didn't believe in love at first sight, but he felt the connection between them.
The day later, they met in front of the flat. Sherlock tried his best to act like he could see, but Mrs. Hudson destroyed this illusion.
"My, Sherlock, where is your stick?" she asked him as soon as she opened the door, "I know you've already seen everything through my, how do you call it… sight?"
"Vision, Mrs. Hudson, it's your vision."
John glanced at him and the realization hit him. Sherlock knew the feeling of staring. Full of pity, he hated it. It was a normal reaction and John couldn't do anything about it, but it still hurt. He was able to defend himself, he was able to walk and live almost without help, but nobody seemed to think about that. For them, he just was the poor blind man.
They walked upstairs and had a little chat. Mrs. Hudson seemed to know that Sherlock felt connected to the new man, but somehow he knew that John was homophobic, at least a little. Sherlock couldn't blame him, but it was the way he was, gay as his brother. What a pity that John seemed to be straight. As soon Lestrade walked out again - a new case, what a wonderful day! - John glared at him again.
"If I'm allowed to ask… how are you able to solve a crime?"
Sherlock scowled and turned around to 'face' John. "Come with me and you'll see."
John followed him, still confused but quiet during the whole drive. As soon as they got to the crime scene, Sally greeted him.
"Freak's here!"
He snorted, but still allowed her to lift his hand on her shoulder. He hated her vision as much as Anderson's. They kept looking at each other and he swore, if she ever looked at his butt again, he would kill her with his bare hand. He was glad when Sally went away and he was greeted by Lestrade. He was professional, calm and concentrated. They entered the crime scene and Sherlock invaded Lestrade's vision. A woman dressed in a pink suit… where was her case? Lestrade kept watching the corpse as Sherlock once told him. He kneeled next to the corpse, his hand resting on Lestrade's leg and worked. John gasped as he began his examination.
"How does he do that?" he whispered to Lestrade in the hope Sherlock wouldn't notice.
"I'm invading his vision," Sherlock explained and caused John to jump in surprise. "It's an ability of mine. I just have to touch someone and I can see through their eyes."
"That's… a joke, right?"
Sherlock shook his head and stood up while he opened his eyes, he wasn't wearing sunglasses today. "As you can see, I'm blind, so that's not a joke. Any more questions?" He knew his voice was cold and ungentle, but he hated people who didn't believe him. They were silly and idiots and he was too smart for them.
He closed his eyes again and continued to work. He almost trembled as he ran downstairs and shouted. No one tried to stop him or lend him a hand. They all wanted to see him fall, they wanted to laugh at him, at the blind man who was such an annoying brat. But he didn't fall. He hadn't forgotten his stick and used it. He had been taught how to use it when he had been five. He always tried to forget it at home.
Back at home, he wasn't surprised that John didn't come immediately. Of course it was Mycroft's work. He invaded his brother's sight and tried to find a reason why he wanted and enjoyed to watch John. Maybe because he was the first good-looking man he had met. And the first one who wanted to live with him even with the knowledge of his strangeness. Sherlock took his phone and called Mycroft. No need to hide his connection to his brother, John would have found out soon enough. His brother moved and swung his umbrella as he began to speak.
"Why am I not surprised that you decide to interrupt my nice, little chat with your new flat mate?" John looked surprise and asked something Sherlock wasn't able to understand because Mycroft began to laugh. "Indeed, Dr. Watson, my brother is able to do that with me even without skin-to-skin contact. It's rather unique, is in it?"
"Stop getting on my flat mate's nerves." Sherlock growled in the phone and hung up. He wanted to tell Mycroft that he should leave John alone, but he couldn't do that. Not when he wanted to see his flat mate.
"I've come to believe you," were John's first words as he entered their flat, "but I'm still trying to figure out how you're able to do it."
Sherlock closed his eyes and clasped his hands in front of his chest. "I don't know it either, John." John sat next to him on the couch and sighed. "It's an enigma my brother and I aren't capable of solving. Not that I would care."
"Were you born blind?"
"Yes. My brother was the first one whose sight I invaded. Don't look so surprised, I know that you wanted to ask that." He turned his head in John's direction and tried to smile. "He is the only one I don't have to touch."
"Do you know why?" John asked and Sherlock was surprised that he sounded interested, not fake-interested, really fascinated.
Sherlock shook his head. "Maybe because he is my brother, I do not know." He stood up and tried to find his stick, he knew that John had changed some furniture and he didn't want to run into something. "What have you moved?"
John stood up and took Sherlock's arm without having the permission to. Sherlock stared wide-eyed as he invaded John's sight without wanting to. John looked at him, but began to glance at everything he had moved. The couch stood on the same place as before, only the table's place was different.
"I'm sorry, I just forgot I shouldn't move anything." John laughed awkwardly. "I can undo it, if you want to."
Sherlock tried his best not to roll his eyes. John reminded him of a dog, but he wouldn't tell him that. Why should he? The grasp on his hand got stronger and he tried to stop his fingers from entwining with John's. But he couldn't. John didn't run away, he didn't scream and tell him to piss off; he looked at Sherlock and smiled.
"You want to get something to eat?" he asked the taller man shyly, "I heard there's a nice Chinese restaurant only a few streets away."
Sherlock nodded immediately. "I'd love to."
He had been foolish, an idiot. He wanted to bang his head against the wall of his 'cell'. Someone had knocked him out while he was walking away from John, crying because the other man told him that he was about to have a date with his female boss. He had been right. John was straight and their shared meals weren't dates, they were a sign of pity. Sherlock had tried to act rational, to wish John a good night, not to run away like a girl whose boyfriend had cheated on her. But why had it felt exactly like that?
"Oh, you are evil, really, you kidnapped a blind man!" he screamed loudly, but no one answered. Of course not, they had left a few minutes ago. It smelled like he was somewhere near the water, but he couldn't figure out where. He only knew the crime scenes, a few restaurants and his flat, nothing more. Kidnapping a blind man, how badass, he thought snarkily. And no one knew where he was.
He closed his eyes and tried to find out where his brother was. He was in America right now, talking to someone Sherlock had heard about on the television, but had never seen. He wouldn't able to fly back to England for at least another few hours. Sherlock didn't want him to come and save him every time Sherlock was in danger. He was capable of defending himself, for god's sake, only no one seemed to notice. It was annoying. He groaned and hid his face in his hands. He needed to find a way out, but what if he was directly over the water? He wasn't able to swim and would drown easily. And screaming didn't work. It was hopeless.
"You have to stay calm, Sherlock, think rationally. You're in a container and somewhere near the water. The sound of the people walking by tells you that you may be next to a place full of tourists, most of them speak Chinese or Japanese, a clear sign. It smells like fish and you can hear some gulls. There are only a few possible places where you could be and you know none of them… bloody idiots, kidnapping a blind man, such idiots!"
He pounded the metal surrounding him and cried out desperately. John was probably already at home. He had had a date and it had been great, probably splendid. He is sitting in his bedroom and smiling like an idiot. And here he was, jealous and crying, again. He wanted to tell John that he was in love with him, that he wanted to spend his life with him, but the doctor would never love him. Never. Who could fall in love with a blind man?
Suddenly an image flashed inside his head. He groaned in pain and clutched his head. He saw their flat, a photo of himself to be exact and a cup of tea in a hand, John's hand, he would recognize them everywhere. What was happening? He could hear a voice, hushed words in the back of his mind, and he screamed because it hurt like someone was stabbing him with a stake. He rolled over the floor, screaming and begging, until the pain was gone. He sat up, confused. The voice was clear and the picture was back, but didn't disappear.
"Of course he had to run away, that bloody idiot," he heard the man say, "because he thinks I would go on a date with a woman when I'm gay."
It was John. He could hear John's thought like they were his own, could see everything without touching him. He had never invaded John's vision after the accident with the moved furniture, and yet it felt familiar. Like he belonged there, in John's mind. He calmed down and lent against the wall, trying to catch his breath.
"I just wonder where he is." John thought worried. "He just ran away."
"Of course I ran away, you idiot," Sherlock hissed and jumped the same time John did.
"What… did I just hear… Sherlock?" John called out, looking around the flat, "Where are you?"
"I don't know," he admitted sighing. John still looked around. It was annoying and made Sherlock fuzzy in his head. "Could you stop that?"
"You're in my mind, aren't you? But how is that possible? You're invading my vision without touching me, what does that mean?" John sat down, running his hands through his hair. "Okay, that doesn't matter right now… where are you?"
"Someone decided to show how cruel and evil he is and kidnapped a blind man," Sherlock said snarkily. "And I have no idea where I am."
"Okay, don't worry; I'm going to find you. Any clues?" Sherlock was surprised how calm his flat mate was. He would have expected him to scream, tell him that he should leave him alone. Hell, why was he able to talk with John from this distance in his head?
"Somewhere near the water, a place full of people from Asia."
It took John less than twenty minutes to find Sherlock. It was funny to see your cage from the outside while you're in it. John opened the door and ran to Sherlock, stroking his hair before he stopped, blushing and thinking how awkward that was. Sherlock silenced his mind with one simple kiss. It didn't matter that Lestrade and his whole team stood behind them, grinning. Sally groaned, pulled money out of her pocket and gave it to an officer who just smiled. Sherlock really didn't want to know why.
Mycroft smiled and turned to Greg who sat on the couch and watched TV. He had taken the first flight he had been able to and was happy that his brother was safe. And happy. He sat next to Greg and rested his head on his lover's lap.
"I never knew that Sherlock was capable of loving," Greg said while he placed kisses on Mycroft's forehead, "but a Holmes is full of surprises."
"Indeed, you never know what can happen," Mycroft agreed and closed his eyes, he was tired because of the jetlag. "Now stay quiet and start kissing me."
Greg chuckled and lent down to follow his boyfriend's orders. Both Holmes were happy. And Sherlock would never invade his vision without reason again.
This is the first oneshot from my FF series "Born diffrently"
There is going to be a sequel to this, describing John's and Sherlock's life.
Thanks to SilentEyedKat for beta-reading.